Golden Moments Part 12

They had scarcely finished their work when the big school-bell sounded, and the boys all came trooping in. Will had to go back to his place, but he left a very light-hearted little boy behind him, for Johnnie and he had vowed life-long friendship, and sums and spelling seemed to have lost all their terrors for both of them.

When Johnnie arrived home from school he could talk of nothing but Will Maynard, and Will, for his part, voted Johnnie "a jolly little chap."

Many a time after that day did they help each other, and when it was reported after the examination that they had both pa.s.sed, each declared he must have failed without the other's help.

They are firm friends still, and are likely to remain so; and whenever a difficulty occurs, in school or out, they always tackle it together; for, as Johnnie says, "A difficulty shared is only half a difficulty."

T'IS NOT FINE FEATHERS THAT MAKE FINE BIRDS.

She was a lady with pins in her hair On a funny old j.a.panese fan.

He was a proud bit of Chinese ware In the shape of a Mandarin man.

She sighed, when she saw him appear on the shelf, For she thought of her shabby old frock.

She said "Oh! I know he will scorn an old fan, As he comes of a very proud stock."

The Mandarin sneered as he took a front place, But his pride had a fall when he found, That the fan was dispatched to a very grand show, For her beauty and age were renowned!

So we'll leave him alone on his shelf while he thinks, With a large diminution of pride, "It is not the feathers that make the fine bird, But the worth of the bird that's inside!"

Horatia Browne.

ELSIE'S FAULT.

Elsie Hayden would have been a charming little maiden but for her besetting fault--talebearing. She was always running in to tell her mother or governess the faults of the others. All day long it was, "Mamma, Rex took some currants," "Mamma, Minnie blotted her copy this morning," "Mamma, the boys have been quarrelling," or some other complaint concerning her companions. Before long Elsie was to go to school, and her mother knew what troubles lay before her if she persisted in looking out for motes in the eyes of others, and forgetting all about the beams in her own. She got Elsie to work a text in silks, "Speak not evil one of _another_," and she told the child that if we feel it is our duty to complain of somebody else, we should be very careful to speak only the _truth_, and in _love_.

One day Elsie came to her mother in great distress.

"Mamma," she sobbed, "they won't play with me; the others have all sent me to Coventry. They whisper 'tell-tale-t.i.t' when I go near them; please make them play with me, mamma. It is so horrid to be left all alone."

"But Elsie," said Mrs. Hayden, "you have brought this trouble on yourself. When you play with the others you seem always on the lookout to find fault with them; how can you suppose they will enjoy a game with a little tale-bearer? Miss Clifford and nurse and I have kept an account of the tales you have carried to us, complaining of the others, and our lists added together make 352 complaints in one week!"

"Oh, mamma--I _haven't_ been a tale-bearer 352 times in a week!"

"It is so indeed, my poor little Elsie. I am sadly afraid you will grow up a scandal-monger, one of those people who go from house to house spreading tales and making mischief. You must try hard, my darling, to cure this fault; remember your _own_ failings, and let the faults of your playmates alone. Poor little Minnie came crying this morning to confess to me she had called you by an unkind name which I had forbidden; but she found you already complaining about her, and trying to get her punished. It was not kind or sisterly, Elsie! Let _love_ rule that little tongue, and be silent when those impatient complaints come into your mind."

"I will try, mamma--I will indeed. Will you keep another list for _next_ week, and see if I am any better?"

Mrs. Hayden promised to do so, and the result showed that Elsie had been a tale-bearer ten times only during the week. The child tried very hard to cure herself of fault-finding, and she was soon "out of Coventry,"

and as time went on n.o.body on seeing her sang the rhyme about "tell-tale-t.i.t."

WINTER.

When icicles hang by the wall, And d.i.c.k the shepherd blows his nail And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipp'd and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl To-who; Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

"Shakespeare"

THE STOLEN CHERRIES.

Long ago I read a story of some boys who stole some cherries, and, try what they might, the cherry stones were always turning up and reminding them of their wickedness. It was a good thing for their consciences that they could not forget what they had done; it is a dreadful thing to do evil and then care nothing about it.

Do you know what is the best thing that can happen to you if you do wrong? To get found out. To conceal a sin is worse than you may suppose; confess to G.o.d and man, and pray for forgiveness. We get vexed with the little birds sometimes when they spoil our fruit; what do you think of d.i.c.k Raynor and Willie Abbot who robbed a poor widow's orchard, and took away the cherries that she would have sold to pay her rent? Day by day the little thieves had a feast in that orchard, and n.o.body guessed who stole the cherries; but there was One Who saw and knew all about the matter. The rent was not paid, and the widow was turned out of her cottage; d.i.c.k and Willie grew to be rich men by and by, and they could have paid her rent over and over again, but it was too late then--the aged woman had pa.s.sed away.

MY SWEETHEART'S ILL TO-DAY.

My sweetheart's ill to-day, Her mates around her linger; She cannot go and play, A pin has p.r.i.c.ked her finger!

A little ache, my dear, But not a sc.r.a.p of sorrow; At worst, perhaps, a tear, And all forgot to-morrow.

MAUD'S NEW SKIPPING-ROPE.

"Books, books, books! I think you will turn into a book yourself some day, Phil."

"Wait till I have finished this chapter, Maud, and then I will go out with you."

"That is always what you say," said Maud: "just a chapter, just a page, and the time goes."

Philip turned over another page.

"Only two more, Maud. Do go. I shall read faster if you do not talk to me. And then I will come,

And you shall see with your eyes of blue What a nice surprise I have got for you."

Maud went away slowly, and when she had reached the door she turned to say,--

"Be quick, Philip."

And then she went and put on her garden hat and went into the garden, down the walk between the currant bushes to a piece of waste ground grown over with short gra.s.s, that she called her playground, for here she could run about, and jump, and skip, and hop, and try to walk upon stilts, and do all sorts of things; and the gardener did not find fault, as he did if she skipped in the garden walks, and knocked off a flower here and there.

"I wonder what the surprise is," said Maud, as she sat down on a bench to wait for Philip.

Before long she saw him coming along, holding his arms behind him. It was plain he had got something he did not want her to see.